


It Comes

by GeoffBee



Category: Cthulhu Mythos - H. P. Lovecraft
Genre: Gen, Horror, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-30
Updated: 2020-10-30
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:53:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 15,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26728501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GeoffBee/pseuds/GeoffBee
Summary: What I am about to say may, at the very least, be met with ridicule among my peers.  Indeed, the very nature of my statement would be reason enough for the academic world to conclude that I had fallen prey to the very same superstition and wild conjecture that I had dedicated my life to deconstructing.A collection of short stories.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 5





	1. It Comes

What I am about to say may, at the very least, be met with ridicule among my peers. Indeed, the very nature of my statement would be reason enough for the academic world to conclude that I had fallen prey to the very same superstition and wild conjecture that I had dedicated my life to deconstructing. At the very worst, my words will leave my reputation in tatters, an ignominious end to a long and industrious career. It is most likely that what I write here will never see the light of public scrutiny, however it is my hope that those of an open and enquiring mind will read these words and heed the warning they contain.

My name is George Carrington and for the last forty years I have been a Professor of Social and Cultural Anthropology at Miskatonic University, Arkham, Massachusetts. My preferred field of study, and indeed my life’s work, has been to explore the myths and legends of those civilisations that came before us - the Aztecs, the Mayans, the Incas and so forth. All my life I have held strongly to the adage that even the wildest and most unbelievable of legends spring from a grain of truth, and it is this adage that I apply to my work, explaining and deconstructing these ancient myths and superstitions in a rational and logical fashion, and from there gleaning lessons that can be applied to our modern way of life. In the pursuit of these matters I have made several allies - most notably Albert Wilmarth whose own studies into folklore and the rational explanations thereof so closely mirror my own. I have also gained rivals, in particular one Professor Henry Armitage, whose beliefs and ideologies border on the mystical, and whose unexplained absences from the campus and hours locked in the Orne Library’s restricted section have given rise to many a question.

A certain recent occurrence, however, has caused me to re-evaluate my previous stance. And now I cannot, in all good conscience, allow the matter to pass without at least some record. Especially since a portion of the event has become public knowledge. Even then, it has taken me many months to gather the courage and determination to make this statement. I pray I am not too late.

It began with a rather hurried and inarticulate phone call from an acquaintance of mine. One William Penridge, an antiquarian of some repute, with whom I had spent many a profitable evening examining artifacts of ancient origin. He contacted me suddenly one day, quite honestly in some state of disarray.

“Carrington! I must see you! It’s life or death!”

Before I could say anything in reply the line went dead. Even though I was not planning to visit for at least another fortnight, the urgency of his communication was enough to rouse me and that very evening I was knocking on his door and being ushered into his living room. The difference in my friend was remarkable. Instead of languidly reclining in one of his great armchairs while we shared sherry or smoked his excellent tobacco, he paced back and forth, rubbing his hands in some agitation. All the while his gaze was drawn to a sculpture on the mantlepiece that I had not seen before. At first I took it to be the image of a bat, and wondered what had caused the alarm in Penridge, but as I continued to regard it I felt some sensation grow in me akin to revulsion.

That it predated our modern civilisation was beyond question. It had the look of some ancient craftsmanship, rendered in a black glassy rock, possibly obsidian. My first impression of a bat came from the general shape of the thing. It stood on two thin legs with two arms outstretched to either side. Between these arms and the main body were what I could only describe as wings, however on closer inspection, instead of the usual construction of bat’s wings, I saw that these were more akin to a shroud or smoke or something similarly incorporeal. That they had been part of the sculpture at all was a marvel of the artisan’s work. Then I regarded the head.

This was no bat’s head. It consisted of a single eye that took up most of what we would normally consider to be the face. The eye had three lobes and, in contrast to the rest of the piece, was made of some transparent stone like amber. I say like amber, as no example of that substance has ever given the impression of glowing from within as this one seemed to.

Penridge stopped his pacing as he saw me regarding the sculpture. “You see it, don’t you.” he said, a tremor I had never heard before in his voice.

I tore my eyes away and swallowed the nauseous feeling as I looked at my friend. “It is certainly a remarkable artifact. Where did you obtain it?”

Penridge collapsed into a chair and, with shaking hands, poured himself a large whisky as he related his account.

He had, he said, been approached by a wealthy owner of an archaeological foundation to evaluate some finds from a site in Australia. His client did not give his name and Penridge did not ask - it was not common, but at the same time not unheard of, for certain parties to wish to remain anonymous, not wishing for their identities to be made public before they were certain of their findings. A considerable sum of money was agreed upon and within a month Penridge had received a small crate containing the statue.

Immediately upon opening it Penridge felt unnerved. The crate had been well packed with straw, however Penridge fancied he could detect some unwholesome odour without being able to ascertain the source. His initial impressions of the artifact mirrored my own, at first believing it to be some derivative of a bat, then seeing that it was something more unheard of. Regardless, Penridge had been commissioned to perform an evaluation and he would do so to the best of his ability, to say nothing of the recompense he would receive upon completion.

Armed with the knowledge that the statue had been found during an archaeological dig in Australia, Penridge’s first thought was that it was Aboriginal in origin. This however proved not to be the case as no other examples of Aboriginal artifacts, both those he had seen in person and those he had read of in his many books, seemed to match the statue’s particular features. Certainly there was no belief system that he was familiar with that had a bat-like figure as part of its pantheon. Penridge wondered if it somehow pre-dated those systems? Certain pictograms around the base of the statue were of particular interest, as they bore no resemblance to any ancient Australian cultural or religious iconography. Indeed, the pictograms suggested to Penridge’s mind an Egyptian origin, however the stone the statue had been carved from was unmistakably from the Oceanic region. Certain strata in the stone indicated a form of obsidian particular to that area. And then there was the eye.

The eye was like nothing Penridge had ever encountered before. The material it was made from defied identification. It was the colour of amber, but it burned with some powerful inner light that amber did not possess. Even in a darkened room it could be seen glowing, almost as if it was alive.

Penridge broke off from his story to take another draught of whisky. I was already considering the ways some fragments of Egyptian myth could find their way to the far off continent of Australia, but at the same time I could see out of the corner of my eye the statue on the mantlepiece. I had the uneasy and completely unfounded feeling that it was watching me. I shook my head to clear the preposterous thought. The atmosphere, along with Penridge’s tale, was starting to affect me in untoward ways.

Penridge took a deep breath and continued. After a week of studying the statue, he had not been able to adequately identify its precise origin and provenance. What was certain was its age and its value to certain collectors. He communicated with the client through an intermediary - one L. Goodman of New York - as per his instructions and waited for the response, secretly glad to finally be rid of the thing. A week passed, then another, and no word came. Penridge wrote again to the intermediary but continued to receive no reply. Then the strange incidents began.

Penridge again took a deep draught of his whisky, his hands shaking more and more, before he spoke again.

At first it was fairly innocuous. There was a fluttering at his windows, as if birds were flapping their wings against the glass. A shadow would fly past now and then. Nothing too untoward, however when Penridge opened the window to look there was no bird there, or any creature of any sort. Then came the rattling, creaking, as if the floors and walls of the house were being disturbed by the wind. This increased in intensity over the following few days until the slightest disturbance was enough to elicit an unbearable cacophony of sound. Penridge fancied he could hear movement in other rooms at night, as though someone were walking through the house, only it didn’t quite sound like footsteps. Occasionally he would find things slightly out of place - an ashtray moved out of position here, a pen on a different desk, the odd jar or inkwell tipped over. 

Eventually Penridge decided to perform an experiment. He allowed dust to build up around his house, especially around small items that were wont to move. The next morning he came down to find that the items had been unmistakably tampered with. He showed me a photo he took of the clock on the mantlepiece, or more particularly part of the base of the clock, where one could clearly see the outline of dust a small distance away from the object. The one thing, he said, that never moved was the statue. It was always in exactly the same position, in fact he pointed out to me where the dust had built up around it and had not been disturbed in the least.

Penridge knew he could not go to the police or a doctor or some similar authority, after all it was not beyond the bounds of reason that he had inadvertently nudged the items himself, and any talk of fluttering, shadows or rattling would be seen as some sort of hallucination, brought on by his studies. Instead he looked for a way to dispose of the statue. Penridge packed it back in the box it had come in, took it to the banks of the Miskatonic and threw it in, marking the place where it sank. Feeling some relief, he returned to his home, only to find the statue in its place on the mantlepiece. That had taken place this evening and it was that event which had precipitated his panicked phone call to me.

Throughout all this I had been sitting in an armchair with my back to one of the large bay windows in Penridge’s living room. My host stopped talking and went to pick up the bottle for a further draught. His eyes looked over my shoulder and grew wide in sheer fright.

“There! Out of the window! It comes!” he screamed. I whirled around in my chair to look out of the window, but I saw nothing. Penridge broke down into an incoherent mess.

“It comes… it comes… I can’t get rid of it...It’s the statue… the statue… it comes…”

To see my friend brought to this state broke my heart. I resolved to help him however I could. I offered to take the statue away with me and contact a doctor on his behalf. Whether or not he heard me I do not know. In part my curiosity about the statue had been aroused and I wished to see if I could determine something of its origins myself. I wrapped the statue in my coat and returned to my lodgings at the university, intending to telephone the Asylum the next morning.

The next morning I found myself busy with the affairs of the university and so it was not until the following day when I had an opportunity to make good on my promise. That morning, I breakfasted while reading the Arkham newspaper, as was my morning routine. An item in one of the inner pages caught my eye.

“Death of an Antiquarian” the headline read. “The noted antiquarian William Penridge died in the early hours of yesterday morning. His body was discovered by his housekeeper. The state of the body was described as grotesque. According to the medical professionals at the scene, the deceased’s face was contorted in a hideous fright, and the deceased had gouged out his own eyes.”

I dropped the paper and the cup I was holding. The contents spilled all over the table. What had happened? Had poor Penridge’s mind broken under the pressure? I felt some guilt for not arranging the promised medical aid sooner, although from the article it seemed that Penridge had died sometime shortly after my visit. I looked to my desk, where I had placed the statue. The eye glowed with its inner fire and I again had the sense that it was watching me. I decided to pen these words so that a record of what occurred, and what Penridge confided to me, might persist. I could not help but remember Penridge’s last words to me. It comes.

There is a fluttering at my windows.


	2. In The Dark Dreaming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “In the dark dreaming, there are only dreams. But in nightmares, your worst fears are reality.”

“In the dark dreaming, there are only dreams. But in nightmares, your worst fears are reality.”

The swamps surrounding Byfield had long been steeped in myth and legend. It was widely reported that a small coven of witches had fled from the Salem Witch Trials of 1692-1693 and had taken refuge in those dark desolate wetlands. Instructed in the occult arts by the ill-famed Keziah Mason herself, these practitioners of dark magic had continued with their rituals until, according to legend, they suddenly disappeared. Whispers abounded that they had called up something they could not control, and that same unspeakable something had led to their demise. A something that still haunted the swamps to this day

Growing up in Byfield, I had been told of these legends. As a child I relished hearing of the evil witches escaping from the trials and their mysterious ceremonies deep in the swamps, and the unknown presence that still lingered. However such things were ultimately proven to be mere folktales. Many had ventured into the swamps over the many years since the reported events and had returned with reports of nothing but bracken, evil smelling mud and the odd dead deer or other similar animal that had wandered too far. My childish imagination still held to the fanciful idea that the witches were still out there, somewhere, waiting for their inevitable return to power.

My dreams, too, were taken up with the legends of the swamps. Almost every night my imagination would take me to the depths of those benighted swamps, far from the comfortable silhouettes of the houses of Byfield. I stumbled and staggered my way through brackish, foul smelling water and deep pits of mud. Thorns and briars tore at my clothing and skin, yet I still struggled onwards. At length I reached a clearing where I could see indistinct figures cavorting in perfectly concentric circles. An ethereal glow bathed the area and sounds of chanting in an unknown tongue rose to the night sky. The whole eerie tableau had a tangible atmosphere of evil about it.

At length I was aware of another presence nearby. I could not fully define what it was, however I had the unmistakable feeling that I was being watched. I crept away from the unholy gathering, intending to find my way back to the village. I soon became aware that I was being followed and I moved faster, splashing through the pools of swamp water and bursting through branches that still tore at me. Around me, the shadows of trees and bushes seemed to turn into arms and hands of unspeakable nature, grasping and clawing at me as I blundered onwards. Although I was going as quickly as I could, I still fancied I could feel hot breath on the back of my neck and something reaching out to grab hold of me. I tripped on a stray branch and fell roughly to the ground, throwing my arm up to guard against whatever was about to befall me. 

It was invariably at that point when I would wake up, safely in my bed, with the first rays of dawn shining through my bedroom curtains. Whether it was through some childlike bravery or foolishness, I never felt any fear. It was as though my unconscious mind knew that I was merely dreaming and would not let any harm to come to me. As I grew older in years the dream came less and less frequently, until the day that I left Byfield behind to begin my studies at the renowned Miskatonic University at Arkham. From that day the dreams no longer came and over time they faded almost completely from my memory.

My majors were in History and Philosophy, and my tutors all agreed that I would have a long and fruitful career ahead of me. I worked and studied hard, barely spending any time away from the Orne Library or my rooms until at last I graduated with honours. It was then that I decided to put to rest once and for all the legends that had surrounded my home town. Before I devoted the rest of my life to the furtherance of the fields which I had studied, I would make one last pilgrimage to Byfield and to the swamps surrounding it. I intended to put to rest those lingering half remembered dreams and fancies of a small child lying in his bed.

The last day of October seemed to be an appropriate date for my little venture, and I spent the days until then researching the history of the Witch Trials, and especially those witches who were under the tutelage of the infamous Keziah Mason. The names and crimes of those convicted and put to death filled many volumes, but of those who had somehow escaped the hangman’s noose there was scant information. Nothing I unearthed confirmed the legends I had grown up with, but at the same time nothing denied them either. Regardless, I felt better equipped to investigate the truth of the matter when the time came.

On the thirty-first of October I rose to catch the early train from Arkham to Newberryport, from where I would take the branch line to Byfield, arriving there in the late afternoon. I had sent a telegram to my parents informing them of my visit, although not the exact reason why. As I sat in the rattling carriage I watched the landscape outside change from the bustling urban districts of Arkham to the grassy rolling hills of New England. The townships of Bolton and Ipswich provided some small opportunity to stretch my legs along the platform, however such opportunities were inevitably curtailed by the train’s whistle indicating its readiness to proceed.

The train arrived at Newberryport shortly after midday. I had a forty minute wait before catching my connection to Byfield. I took the opportunity to buy lunch from a small grocer’s shop nearby and sat on a wooden bench on the platform, eating a stale ham sandwich and drinking cold coffee. At a quarter-past two the train rumbled into view, and the sight of it filled me with trepidation. The locomotive looked as though it would fall apart at any moment and the carriages were not much better. The wood looked ancient and worm ridden and the iron wheels had great patches of rust on the rims. It was, however, the only way to get to my destination so I took my seat and braced myself for a most uncomfortable journey.

I was surprised to find that the ride was on the whole fairly smooth, and just over an hour later the train pulled into the small station at Byfield. There was no one on the short platform waiting for me, so I called a cab and rode to my parents house. The reception was polite and cordial - they had never fully accepted my decision to leave - and I was left to my own devices. I spent the few remaining hours until evening wandering around the town. Rather unsurprisingly, nothing had changed. The buildings were exactly the same as I remembered - old and overhanging and rotting with age. I would not be sorry to put this place behind me.

At half past ten I made my way to the outskirts of the town. The edges of the swamp lay stretched out in front of me. I had left my case at my parents’ house and only carried a flashlight with me. Turning it on, I was slightly disappointed to see that the light did not carry far, however I was determined to carry on. I started walking and before long I was wading through the familiar mud and water that I remembered from my childhood. Before long I was fighting my way through the bushes and branches like I had done so many times before, both in my dreams and in real life. The thorns tore at me as I knew they would. The stench was almost overpowering. I wrapped a napkin around my face to try to reduce the effect.

Eventually I came upon a clearing and stopped still. In front of me was a vision that made me question whether or not I was awake, or still dreaming in my old bed at my old house. Had the last few years been real? Had I really been at Miskatonic University? Were those memories real? Or was I still a child, my head filled with wild fantasies, lying asleep? I was no longer certain of anything, not even my own identity.

I saw half a dozen figures dancing and writhing around a glowing ball of light. They appeared to be wearing ragged clothing dating from the 17th century. The ball of light in their midst emitted a sickly green light that seemed to reach up to the heavens. They chanted a dark, loathsome litany that sounded at once alien and bestial to my ears. I debated with myself whether or not to try and get closer or to flee when I heard a low noise that seemed to come from my left side and my right side at the same time. This time there was no childish sense of adventure and bravery as my courage dissipated and I turned to flee as quickly as I could. The chanting stopped and I could feel the burning gaze of many eyes on me. I immediately started running.

It did not take me long to realise that I was being chased. That unnamed, unspeakable presence was close on my heels. I looked around and saw the shadows of the trees and bushes around me stretch out and take the form of grasping claws that reached out to try and snag any part of my clothing they could. The air seemed to grow thick and heavy and the water I was wading through became almost like sludge. I felt an abominably hot breath on the back of my neck and heard a low growling, as though the thing was amused at my plight. Fingers, or claws or something brushed across my back for a moment.

What foul fate chose that moment to put a stray route in front of me I never knew, as I tripped and fell face first into a pool of foul smelling slimy water. I threw an arm up in a futile effort to shield myself against what was coming.

This time I did not wake up.


	3. Flickering Lights

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The lights flickered.
> 
> Mark Wentworth sighed as he shone his flashlight around the darkened hall. Night watchman at the Arkham Historical Society was hardly the most auspicious of careers, however for the last ten years it had been his responsibility to ensure the security of the museum.

The lights flickered.

Mark Wentworth sighed as he shone his flashlight around the darkened hall. Night watchman at the Arkham Historical Society was hardly the most auspicious of careers, however for the last ten years it had been his responsibility to ensure the security of the museum. That it was an important responsibility was beyond doubt - the Historical Society housed many artifacts from ancient times and civilisations, and their total worth was more than Wentworth could ever hope to achieve in his entire life. During the day the museum was open to students and professors from Miskatonic University, as well as visiting researchers and scholars from other parts. The public was also welcome to view the artifacts, however very few availed themselves of the offer.

Wentworth himself was no scholar or researcher. His dedication to his job was founded purely in financial necessity, and he would be the first to agree that his wages were very reasonable. He made his way through the Mayan wing, walking a well-worn route and shining his torch into the various nooks and crannies where a person may be concealed. His flashlight lit up some of the exhibits, the light glinting from golden plaques and jewellery. Over the years he had heard rumours that one or two of the pieces had not been accurately identified, and were categorised primarily by what they most resembled. Wentworth did not care for any of this. His duty was to ensure that these artifacts were safe, not that they were academically sound.

Other rumours had also reached Wentworth’s ears. Shortly after attaining his position as night watchman Wentworth had visited one of the more disreputable speakeasies of Arkham - prohibition was as much a legal requirement here as anywhere else, however the police were known to turn blind eyes, and one could usually find a couple of off-duty officers indulging in the forbidden vice. The rumours spoke of previous employees of the Historical Society, and how some of them had left under mysterious circumstances. One or two had outright disappeared. Stories of strange noises and strange visions abounded, however Wentworth was not given to such nonsense. It was a job and he would make the best of it. 

His inspection of the Mayan wing completed, Wentworth made his way to the Australian exhibits. He very carefully avoided one particular item - a tall tiara made of solid gold. Wentworth had no idea what it was, nor where it came from, but he still felt a sense of unease whenever he came near it, his contempt of superstition notwithstanding. Above him, the dimmed lights flickered again. Wentworth shook his head. The wiring in this building was old, almost as old as the Society itself, and was prone to small outages. His flashlight was working well though, and he shone it before him as he continued his well-practiced route. The entrance to the Australian wing was just ahead, and Wentworth was about to enter when he thought he heard something to his right. He quickly shone his flashlight in that direction but saw nothing. Wentworth decided it must have been his imagination and moved forward.

The Australian wing in and of itself interested Wentworth as much as the Mayan wing did - that is not at all, however nothing here gave him any discomfort like the strange tiara did. Statues and carvings watched him with unseeing eyes as he again shone his flashlight around the hall. Once again his searching beam turned up no intruders, although some of the corners had several layers of dust which would benefit from cleaning. His inspection of the Australian exhibits passed without incident and he made his way around the remaining few exhibition halls.

Finally, Wentworth stood before the final wing. The Egyptian wing. To an outside observer, his route would not have seemed the most efficient, indeed he had passed the entrance to the Egyptian wing several times on his rounds, but he always kept it until the end. He would never admit it to anyone, and would violently disagree with anyone who suggested any sense of cowardice, but something about the Egyptian wing felt wrong. He had his duty though, and, raising his flashlight before him, he crossed the threshold.

Golden masks of long-dead pharaohs and statues of ancient Egyptian gods lined the walls, the gold reflecting the beam from Wentworth’s flashlight, the eyes lifeless and staring. Wentworth moved slower around this hall, taking care to examine each alcove and shadow. His feet led him in a decreasing orbit to the centre of the room, where the source of his unease stood. As he approached he felt the atmosphere grow colder and a chill ran down his spine. He tried to tell himself that he was being foolish, that nothing else was alive in here, but he still felt cool sweat on his brow.

The centrepiece of the room was a statue of a pharaoh rendered in black stone. The statue was approximately life sized but even a casual observation showed some unusual features. The shape of the body was a bit too tall and thin, with legs that were unnaturally long. The thin, wiry arms held sceptres of unholy design. The face was out of some nightmarish phantasy. The skin was depicted as being stretched too tightly over the skull, giving the statue the cruellest of sneers imaginable. Wentworth saw all too briefly the placard that had been set up next to the statue.

Nephren-Ka, Third Dynasty.

The lights flickered again, and Wentworth thought for a moment he saw the carved face of the pharaoh move, as though it smiled horribly at him. For a moment the eyes of the statue seemed to look at him and through him. Wentworth took an involuntary step backwards and collided with something that wasn’t there before. He whirled around and brought his flashlight up to see what he had crashed into.

“Oh, it’s you Mr Bonhomie,” Wentworth said, a tremor in his voice that he tried unsuccessfully to hide.

The person before him smiled widely. “Please, Mr Bonhomme. I am so sorry to have startled you. I did not know you were here. Ha ha ha.”

Wentworth had seen Mr Bonhomme only in passing but knew him to be an Egyptologist engaged in research on the Third Dynasty, in particular the evil pharaoh Nephren-Ka, whose statue stood nearby. Despite the french sounding name, Wentworth had never been able to detect any trace of an accent, although Mr Bonhomme did have a peculiar way of speaking, which Wentworth attributed to an eccentricity so common to the academic types.  
Wentworth suddenly remembered himself. “Mr Bonhomme, the museum is closed now. I must ask you to leave and return in the morning.”

Mr Bonhomme smiled. “Of course. How one loses track of time. I was just reaching an important stage in my studies and I did not have a clock to hand. I will gather my belongings and leave at once.”

Throughout the entire conversation, Mr Bonhomme’s smile never wavered, and to Wentworth it seemed that the grin was a bit too wide. Mr Bonhomme’s eyes did not seem to reflect the light of the flashlight, and Wentworth found himself staring intently at them, as if he was falling into them. Wentworth suddenly shook his head. The atmosphere was getting to him and playing tricks with his imagination. Maybe it was time he too found new employment like so many before him. He nodded at Mr Bonhomme.

“Of course sir. I hope you’ll have a good night.” He nodded in respect and moved away to complete his patrol and make his report.

The person calling himself Mr Bonhomme watched Wentworth leave. He smiled again, the corners of his mouth almost reaching to his ears. Let the fool think he had some authority. It would not be too long now.

The lights flickered, and then there were only shadows.


	4. The Old House

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What the deciding factor was, that led to poor young Rupert Willard to suffer his ultimate breakdown and be incarcerated indefinitely in a cell at Arkham Asylum, none could truly say with confidence

What the deciding factor was, that led to poor young Rupert Willard to suffer his ultimate breakdown and be incarcerated indefinitely in a cell at Arkham Asylum, none could truly say with confidence. It was in the early hours of the 16th when his landlady placed a call with the police complaining of terrified screams coming from her tenant’s room. Two officers attended and, upon breaking down the door to the room, found young Willard in a state of catatonia, his face pale as if it had been entirely drained of blood. He kicked and struggled so much that it took the two officers’ combined strength to finally subdue him, and he was transported straight to the asylum, whereupon he was restrained and locked in a cell pending examination. His screams continued all through the night.

Young Willard’s fate came as a shock to those who knew him, especially to his fellow students at the prestigious Miskatonic University, where he was studying Cultural Anthropology under the esteemed Professor George Carrington and the expert tutelage of Albert Wilmarth. Like Wilmarth, young Willard had a particular interest in deconstructing and giving logical explanation to folklore, however, where Wilmarth’s field concerned ancient myths and legends, such as the Abominable Snowmen of Tibet, the Bloody Tongue of Africa, and the so-called Elder Sign, a symbol purported to have protective faculties against the darkest nightmares of ancient civilisations, young Willard was more drawn to local stories. Arkham was an ancient city, dating back to the 15th century and beyond, and featured heavily in tales of witches and foul rituals, indeed it was said that one of the most prominent figures of the Salem Witch Trials of 1692 - 1693, the ill-famed Keziah Mason herself, had sought refuge in Arkham along with her familiar Brown Jenkin. Young Willard relished the challenge of investigating these stories and bringing to light the cold hard facts, shorn of phantasy and superstition.

What follows is the scant data gleaned from young Willard’s outlandish and often insane ravings, along with statements from those few individuals who bore witness to the final breakage of a once promising mind.

Young Willard had heard rumours of an old house towards the northern end of Arkham. Old houses were nothing unusual in the ancient and decaying city, however something about this particular building struck young Willard as being worthy of investigation. It was said that none dared to enter, that the area immediately surrounding the house was completely silent and deathly still. Those who lived in close proximity regularly complained of nausea and strong feelings of foreboding. While no definite sources for these rumours could be identified, the content was more than to pique young Willard’s curiosity, and he resolved to uncover the truth from the fiction at the first opportunity.

That opportunity came the following weekend. Young Willard completed his scheduled tasks and assignments and found that he had the Saturday afternoon completely free. It seemed as good a time as any to begin examining the old house he had heard about. He packed a small briefcase with note paper and pencils, placed a flashlight in his coat pocket, and left his accommodation situated on the south bank of the Miskatonic river As he passed his landlady he waved goodbye and intimated that he would be back a bit later than was his custom. Stepping out into the early afternoon sunlight, young Willard crossed the West Street bridge to the north side of the city. Along the way he glanced over at the island in the middle of the river. This was another source of rumour and mystery. No living soul inhabited the island and it had garnered an evil reputation among the citizens of Arkham. Young Willard had not yet found the time he estimated it would require to make a thorough and complete survey on the island, however it was definitely on his list of candidates for rational and logical explanation.

At approximately three o’clock in the afternoon young Willard stood before his objective. It was indeed a house, seemingly older than those around it. The bay windows were blackened and the timbers and frames looked old and rotting. The door had been fashioned to look as imposing as possible, and young Willard agreed that such a picture would be more than enough to engender feelings of unease in those passing by. There was a single tree in the garden outside, and despite the time of year young Willard could hear no birds nesting. Indeed, young Willard could hear nothing at all. The deathly silence and stillness in the stories was certainly more than mere fiction. The realisation spurred young Willard on to uncover the truth of the house.

The evil-looking door turned out to be unlocked, and young Willard was able to open it without much effort. The hinges groaned with age, however they did not provide significant resistance, and young Willard stepped into a world from an age long past. That no-one had been here for centuries was immediately evident. Dust and cobwebs covered every visible surface, long white strands stretched from mantlepiece to skirting board to chair to door frame and back again. It put young Willard in mind of a giant spider web. He laughed at the ridiculousness of the thought as he unpacked the paper and pencils from his briefcase and began to take notes and make rough sketches for further examination later. His initial observations completed, young Willard took out his flashlight and began to walk slowly through the house. As he stepped on the ancient bare floorboards he heard them creak, and he fancied he could feel the house shake slightly, presumably due to some breeze or similar air movement outside.

_Creak… creak… creak…_

The few rooms on the ground floor proved to be something of a disappointment to young Willard. Everywhere he looked he saw the same dust and cobwebs covering the floor and furniture. From a purely historical and architectural point of view, the house would be a treasure trove of knowledge on how previous generations had lived their lives. For young Willard, the historical value was purely incidental. His sole concern was to find a logical, rational explanation for the stories that had risen around this place. The kitchen yielded nothing relevant to his research, however he did note some intact crockery and fittings that would seem to date from the early 18th century. Young Willard made a brief note of these for his fellow students who would be more interested in such things.

His researches on the ground floor complete, young Willard approached the main staircase. It looked as though it were the centrepiece of the house, the bannisters showing the most exceptional craftsmanship he had thus far seen. He was forced to admit to himself that if he were so inclined, such a staircase would be exactly what he imagined would be in an ancient house such as this. As he ascended he once again noticed the now-familiar creaking. It was rhythmical, perfectly in time with his steps.

_Creak… creak… creak…_

Young Willard reached the top of the stairs and moved his flashlight around him. One door looked as though it led to some kind of bathroom, and the stench of centuries old rotten matter emanating from there told young Willard that it would not be a wise idea to investigate that particular room. Another door hung open and young Willard saw a small chamber with the remains of what looked like cleaning equipment. The only door that looked promising was a rather ornate door, most likely the master bedroom. Young Willard pushed open the door and stopped dead. The shock of what he saw before him was enough to cause him to drop both his briefcase and his flashlight. The briefcase sprung open on impact with the floor and the pencils and papers, covered with notes and sketches, flew out over the floor. Young Willard did not notice, so paralysed was he by the sight before him. 

The room was a perfect replica of his room at the boarding house on the south of the Miskatonic. Young Willard looked around him in disbelief. Every detail was perfect. The bed, the desk, the lamp, all of it was here and all of it was exactly as it was in his real room. Even the photographs of his parents were present. As young Willard stood still, trying to somehow process it all, he once again heard the creaking around him. The creaking of the house grew louder and to young Willard’s mind it started to sound like something else. 

_Creak… creak… creak…_

Young Willard’s imagination spiralled out of control. He now heard not creaking, but a heartbeat, perfectly in time with his own, echoing around him. Young Willard backed out of the room and turned to flee down the stairs, only now instead of wood they seemed to be made of a soft, spongy substance. The bannisters felt sticky, and when young Willard lifted his hand from them in surprise strands of fluid came up with them. Around him was a low pulsing red light. Young Willard realised with mounting fright that it was coming from the strands of cobweb, which now seemed to be less cobweb and more veins,pulsing in time with the heartbeat. His wits rapidly fraying, young Willard ran as fast as he could to the front door, only now it seemed to him to be a mouth that was rapidly closing, seeking to trap and consume him. As the last shreds of his sanity left him, young Willard threw himself forward through the shrinking opening. 

When young Willard came back to his senses, he found himself a few blocks away from that evil house. Night had fallen and he was panting heavily, as though he had run harder than he ever had before. Slowly, reluctantly, young Willard returned to the location of the old house. There was the tree outside, only now an owl was roosting in the branches. The sound of the owl’s hooting felt out of place. Young Willard moved his gaze to the old house itself. All that was there was a low wall. There was no sign or trace of the house. Young Willard shook his head. This was definitely the right place. He saw someone walking past and called out to them. 

“Where’s the house?” he asked, a note of panic in his voice. 

The passer-by looked at him strangely. “What house? There’s never been a house here,” he said as he continued on. 

Young Willard asked other people as he saw them and received the same response - there had never been an old house. The people in the area had never complained of anything unusual. Young Willard couldn’t grasp what was happening. Had he really seen what he had seen? Had it all been the result of a suppressed imagination finally boiling forth? He decided to return to his room and approach the problem with a fresh mind the next morning. 

The journey back to his lodgings was unnerving but uneventful. Even the sight of the forsaken island on the river disturb young Willard. Eventually he arrived back at the student house and climbed the stairs to his room. He opened the door and looked around him in relief. Everything was still here. This was the real thing, not some evil facsimile. Young Willard entered and walked to his bed. 

_Creak… creak… creak..._


	5. A Simple Idea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What is the most resilient parasite? Bacteria? A virus? An intestinal worm? An idea. Resilient... highly contagious. Once an idea has taken hold of the brain it's almost impossible to eradicate. An idea that is fully formed - fully understood - that sticks; right in there somewhere.” - Inception, 2010

“What is the most resilient parasite? Bacteria? A virus? An intestinal worm? An idea. Resilient... highly contagious. Once an idea has taken hold of the brain it's almost impossible to eradicate. An idea that is fully formed - fully understood - that sticks; right in there somewhere.” - Inception, 2010

Even now I cannot say with any confidence or conviction just where the idea came from. That damnably simple suggestion, which led to so much horror and fear for myself and my friends, could have come from any one of us. Was it from Ellington, whose grisly fate has never been fully explained and who could be considered to have been the luckiest of us? Or was it from poor Maithers, imprisoned in Arkham Asylum, who spends his days screaming incomprehensibly and tearing at his own hair and flesh? One thing I can say for certain, the idea did not come from me.

It was in the early spring of 1924. The three of us were fellow students at the prestigious Miskatonic University of Arkham, Massachusetts. We were on break between semesters and had embarked on a tour of the Eastern seaboard, travelling from Boston down to New York in search of new sights and experiences. Our journey had on the whole proved to be disappointing. Having sampled various pleasures - both legal and illegal - during our time in Arkham, we wanted something entirely novel. To our dismay, the speakeasies and nightlife of Arkham were very similar to that of other cities and we despaired of finding something to satisfy our desires.

By chance, we discovered a small bookshop in a backstreet alley in one of the many streets of Manhattan. The shop was old and dark, the windows covered with dust and cobwebs. The atmosphere of mystery and menace radiating from every inch drew us in and, like moths drawn to a black flame, we opened the ancient door, the hinges creaking from rust and age, and crossed the threshold. The interior of the shop was as foreboding as its exterior, with rotting shelves and tables piled high with large tomes bound with dark leather. In contrast to the rest of the city, whose light was provided by electricity, here candles burned, their flickering flames giving dim illumination. The hairs on the back of my head began to rise and I almost suggested that we leave this place, but I stopped at the realisation that this was indeed a new experience. Was this not what we had been seeking these past weeks?

Ellington reached out and ran his hand along the worn spines of a shelf of books. One in particular attracted his attention, although from where I was standing I could see no difference between that particular volume and the ones around it. Ellington pulled it free from the shelf and was about to open it when we heard a voice behind us.

“Hi there! I am so sorry, I did not hear you come in! Ha ha ha!”

I turned around quickly. A man stood there, seemingly having appeared from nowhere, and from his statement I deduced that he was the proprietor of this shop. I looked him up and down for a brief moment. In contrast to the ancient shop, this man looked very modern. His suit was pressed and immaculately tailored, and his demeanour was jovial. The shadows cast by the flickering candlelight caused his facial features to appear strange for a moment. It was as though his smile seemed to stretch too far and his eyes appeared jet black, as if they were windows to the depths of the universe. I blinked involuntarily and the strange images disappeared. The man spoke again.

“Welcome to my Antique Bookshop! What can I do for you?” he said, the bright lilt of his voice at odds with the dismal surroundings. He noticed the book Ellington was holding. “Ah, yes! An excellent choice sir! Ancient Cults of the Far East! One of my personal favourites!”

Ellington looked at the tome in his hands. It certainly sounded interesting and would make a unique souvenir of our trip. “How much is it?” Ellington asked. By this time Maithers had joined us and was also looking with curiosity at the book.

“Why sir! Such a rare work is priceless! However I can see that you are fine upright folks, so I would be happy to sell it to you for two hundred dollars!” If anything, the owner’s smile grew wider.

We looked at each other. Such a sum was well within our means, however it would signal the end of our vacation. Still, we had come this far, so why not? We each contributed to the requested price and soon walked back out into the sunlight, the book wrapped up in a heavy package under Ellington’s arm.

Over the next few weeks after our return to Arkham we met regularly to pore over the book and its contents. It had been written in an archaic form of language which, thanks to our academic studies, we were well able to understand. We read of various ancient cults and their beliefs and practices. There was scant information on the objects of worship of the cults - some of the pages of the book were delicate and more than one had decayed beyond legibility. As we delved further and further into the book’s secrets the thought began to take root in each of our minds that perhaps we could re-enact one of the ancient rituals.

As I have already said, I do not know who first gave voice to the idea, however once out in the open it seemed like the natural and logical conclusion to our researches. We scoured the book looking for a ritual that seemed the simplest to perform involving components that were the most readily available and soon found the best candidate. Over the next few weeks we gathered materials, some sourced locally, others from further afield, and rehearsed portions of the ancient formula. Our sense of expectation grew until we were obsessed with it. Every time we met all we discussed was our upcoming performance of the ritual, until finally the time stipulated in the text was upon us.

I will admit that I do not recall all that happened during that fateful night. Ellington, Maithers and myself had gathered in Ellington’s room. We had cleared away most of the furniture and painstakingly inscribed the sigils on the wooden floor. As the clock struck midnight, we began. Upon completion of the ritual we waited expectantly, however for a moment nothing happened. Then suddenly there was a bright burst of light and that was the last I can remember of the event. Over the next few days however the effects became apparent.  
Poor Maithers was the first to succumb. He had been closest to the unexplained burst of light and whatever he had seen had done irreparable damage to his mind. All he could say was one word - “Noo-ren” - over and over again. His condition worsened over the following days until finally we had no choice but to commit him for psychiatric evaluation and treatment. Before long he was kicking and screaming in his cell and clawing at his flesh, drawing blood and painting the walls of his cell with the same symbols we had seen in that abominable book. The only intelligible word that issued from his lips was “Noo-ren”.

Ellington and myself seemed to be unaffected. It was a grief to us to see Maithers deteriorate, and we ultimately agreed never to speak of the occurrence again. We burned the book and scattered its ashes over the Miskatonic. We then devoted ourselves to our academic studies as best we could.

Ellington eventually found another mechanism for coping with what happened. He confided in me that he had met a young lady of chinese descent. He described her as fascinating and shy, indeed she spent the majority of the time with her face hidden behind a black fan. Still, they became acquainted and Ellington found a kindred spirit who held the same fascination with the occult and ancient rites and practices.

A couple of months later Ellington told me that his intention was to request the young lady’s hand in marriage, and had asked her to visit him in his room that very evening. I was happy for my friend and wished him the very best of luck. Those were my last words to him. The next day his body was discovered and I was asked to identify him. The official verdict was suicide - the door to his room had been locked and no other person was present, not even the chinese lady. What I saw though was not the result of someone taking his own life. The body that lay on the slab before me had been crushed almost flat. His entire ribcage had been broken as if a tremendous weight had pressed down on it and his face had been contorted into a mask of absolute terror. Investigation of Ellington’s room had uncovered a single word, hastily written in blood, near to where his body had been found. “Noo-ren”. No trace of the young chinese lady was ever found. 

All of this happened years ago and even now some part of me wonders if it had actually occurred, if the significance I attributed to these events was real or just the product of a fevered mind pushed to breaking point by what it had experienced. Recently I have come to the conclusion that there is only one way to be certain. One course of action that will uncover the truth of the matter. I must perform the ritual again.

I have perfect recall of the formula of the ritual and have gathered the required materials over the past few weeks. Tonight I will find out once and for all whether my friends were the victims of unhappy coincidence, or whether something fouler was at work. For the past few nights the ritual has been all I can think about and now finally tonight is the night. Finally I will discover the truth behind this “Noo-ren”. But still, one small thought tugs at my mind. One small shred of my remaining sanity shining through like a light soon to be extinguished by the darkness.

_This is not my idea._


	6. The Forgotten Pharaoh

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Transcribed from the papers of the late Jerome Montserrat, Archaeologist_
> 
> As I write these words, which will form my last confession, I cannot help but be struck by a delicious sense of irony. That I, who had devoted my whole life to uncovering secrets and mysteries forgotten by time and bring them to the light of day, should have kept the darkest secret of all to myself all my life, only now to reveal the true horror of what transpired that day so long ago.

_Transcribed from the papers of the late Jerome Montserrat, Archaeologist_

As I write these words, which will form my last confession, I cannot help but be struck by a delicious sense of irony. That I, who had devoted my whole life to uncovering secrets and mysteries forgotten by time and bring them to the light of day, should have kept the darkest secret of all to myself all my life, only now to reveal the true horror of what transpired that day so long ago. The icy shadow of Death is now upon me, and it wears a familiar face. It is my intention, and indeed hope, that none will ever read this statement, that age and posterity will forget me as it forgot that thrice-accursed Pharaoh so many millenia ago.

My occupation, indeed one could say calling, has been archaeology. The dreams of exploring ancient and long dead civilisations, of standing where they stood, of seeing what they saw, fascinated me even as a young boy, and when the opportunity came to study Ancient History at one of the most prestigious universities of the United States of America I eagerly jumped at the chance. Fairly soon, my sights were set upon Egypt. Stories of the Great Belzoni and the discovery of the lost temple of Rameses fired my imagination and my fervour, and I dreamed of a day when my name would stand alongside such giants of discovery.

The early years of the twentieth century saw something akin to a gold rush as distinguished academics, wealthy patrons and anybody who fancied themselves able to hold a shovel rushed to the land of Egypt, each hoping to uncover the tomb of an ancient Pharaoh or some other similarly important figure. The exploits of Howard Carter and Lord Carnarvon in unearthing the tomb of the great king Tutankhamun are, quite rightly, world famous, despite the so-called curse that seemed to follow the members of that expedition. My intention, however, was to uncover something truly unique, something unimaginable, let alone unknown.

During my studies at the notable Miskatonic University, Arkham, Massachusetts, I had found a singular reference to a character seemingly unheard of in the more widely accepted records of Egyptian history. A name, Nephren-Ka, appeared on a crumbling fragment of papyrus found by chance at the Historical Society partnered with the University. This name instantly piqued my interest, as I had never come across it in the course of my research. Investigation of publicly available records, along with those yet to be published, turned up no further mentions of the mysterious Nephren-Ka, and eventually I was forced to turn to more esoteric and occult sources. Thus it was in the restricted section of the university’s Orne Library, after long and lonely nights spent poring over blasphemous volumes such as the Necronomicon, the Book of Eibon and the enigmatic Pnakotic Manuscripts, that I finally found unequivocal evidence of Nephren-Ka’s existence. I determined then and there that I would make it my life’s work to restore this figure to his rightful place in history.

Following my graduation from Miskatonic University I applied and was accepted to join several small archaeological expeditions to the Valley of the Kings. These served the purpose of providing me with the experience I would require to undertake my own search, however the results were not overly significant. As I entered my fourth decade I felt that I could wait no longer and looked for a patron who would be willing to fund my activities. Eventually, after much ridicule and rejection, I obtained a grant from the Historical Society of Arkham, the same place I had first learned the name of the almost-mythical Nephren-Ka. It seemed fitting to me that the Society would play a significant role in my great undertaking. And so it was that arrangements were finalised and an expedition, of which I was the head researcher, was assembled. There were seven of us who formed the research team. I still see their faces when I close my eyes. Harris, expert in antiquities; Burroughs, linguist and well versed in ancient hieroglyphs; Williamson, chief engineer; Colbert, my deputy, Gregory, second engineer; and Osborne, representative of the Historical Society. I pray they can forgive me. I surely have not forgiven myself.

I had determined early on that our search would not be within the Valley of the Kings. Other archaeologists had done a thorough job of excavating everything of value from that area and I felt that someone as well hidden as Nephren-Ka would not be found there. Instead I planned for us to work in an area some miles from Dahshur. Just as the omission of Nephren-Ka had left a void in history, so there seemed to be a void in the geographical landscape of the desert. The steps of the pharaohs and their subjects could be reliably traced throughout the country apart from this one place, which had apparently remained untouched for an unusual length of time. It seemed logical to me that such a shunned stretch of desert would be the place where we should begin our dig.

The work was arduous, more so than I had experienced during my previous expeditions. The locals were extremely reluctant to set foot in the area we had decided upon, and it was only with the promise of large amounts of money that we could get any sort of workforce at all. The sun seemed to beat down with more intense heat than normal and we found ourselves having to jealously guard and ration our water and food supplies. It took us many years to thoroughly survey the area and excavate through the sand and rubble of time. Gregory and Harris threatened on more than one occasion to leave and seek employment with other archaeological parties however I was able to persuade them with talk of riches and fame unlike any other.

It was when we had reached the edge of despair, when we had nearly covered the whole of the area and found nothing, that by chance Burroughs made a discovery. He had been seeking a sheltered spot to perform some translation work he had been forwarded and had selected a likely space. To use his words, it was as though the wind shifted at that precise moment and a small piece of regularly carved stone was uncovered. One glance was all it took for him to recognise a symbol as “Ka”. To this day I wish to heaven he had chosen somewhere else to sit! We set upon the new site with renewed vigour and, mere weeks later, had uncovered the first and only promising sign that our search was not in vain. A roughly-hewn stairway, leading down to a featureless slab of rock. Williamson and Gregory were able to use some of the expedition’s supply of dynamite to create an entryway large enough for a person to crawl through and myself, Harris, Williamson and Osborne decided that we would make the first entry into the opening.

My first impression of the interior beyond the opening was not favourable. The walls around us were smooth and featureless, with no form of inscription or decoration. The floor around us was bare, quite unlike other tombs that had been found that were laden with treasure. I was about to give up and leave when I saw the light from my lantern reflected in the walls. I stepped closer and held up the lantern. The wall was perfectly smooth, almost like glass. I called Williamson over. He rapped his fingers against it and turned to me with an excited grin on his face.

“Montserrat, I think this is obsidian!” he said in an excited whisper.

I grinned back. No other tomb or chamber that had been so far discovered had contained obsidian. It was quite simply unheard of. The cost to make this place must have been astronomical. My thoughts were interrupted by a shot from Harris. He had discovered an opening in the black wall. The light from his lantern disappeared into darkness so intense it was almost indistinguishable from the obsidian surrounding it. I shared a look with the others. There were strict rules on involving the authorities and inspectors when uncovering artifacts that might be culturally and historically significant, however we felt that what we had here was important enough to forgo those rules. Thus, with myself in the lead, we made our way down the newly discovered passage. 

After seemingly hours of turning left and right and one dead end after another, guided only by the light from our lanterns, we finally came to what was obviously the central chamber. Again, there were no trinkets or scrolls to be found here. Instead in the centre stood a statue, fashioned from the same obsidian as the walls around us. Here also was the first hint of another we had seen, as the statue had embellishments of gold giving it a humanoid appearance. There was no sarcophagus to be found, however I felt that this statue would be more than enough to justify our labours. Was this Nephren-Ka? I held my lantern up to the statue’s face. The light shifted and reflected from the eyes and for a moment I felt like Nephren-Ka was looking back at me through the ages. The form of the statue had been highly stylised, with the legs longer and thinner than a normal man’s and the mouth fixed in a cruel sneer that stretched too far around the face. I turned to my companions. “We need to get this out of here and back home,” I said, my voice no louder than a whisper but still sounding loud in the chamber.

Osborne agreed. “This will make a fine addition to the Historical Society’s collection.” he said, his eyes lit up with greed.

It took the four of us to carry the statue back through the labyrinth, and even then we had to stop every few feet to catch our breath. There was no way of telling how much time had passed by the time we eventually reached the entrance, where Burroughs and Gregory waited with the workforce. As the statue was lifted onto one of the transport vehicles, Gregory had dire news.

“One of the workers says there’s a sandstorm coming. It’ll be here in a couple of hours.” he said.

This was the worst thing that could happen. To finally uncover what could be the last resting place of Nephren-Ka, only to have it snatched away from us? I turned to look at Osborne, Harris and Williamson and saw my thoughts reflected in their eyes. We came to a silent agreement. I turned back to Gregory.

“We will stay here until the sandstorm passes.” My voice was firm without a hint of fear or trepidation.

Gregory was nonplussed. “Are you sure sir? If the entry is buried it may be days or weeks before we can uncover it!”

I nodded. “Leave behind some bedrolls and food. What is here is well worth the risk.”

Gregory reluctantly acquiesced and before long the four of us were left with enough supplies to last us a couple of days at least, although I felt sure we would be rescued before then. We decided to set up our small camp in the main central chamber where we had found the statue. We spent some time exploring more passageways, sometimes in pairs, sometimes alone. Once or twice I thought, or rather felt, someone behind me, but no one was there and my calls were answered by one of my companions. Disappointingly, we found no further artifacts other than the statue and we eventually regrouped at our makeshift campsite to wait out the night.

After a meagre dinner of salt and crackers Osborne announced that he wished to relieve himself. The thought of soiling this magnificent construction with our bodily waste was initially abhorrent to me, however I saw that such things would be necessary during our time here and so I nodded my agreement. Osborne withdrew down a side passage, taking his lantern with him. Fifteen minutes passed and Osborne did not return. I was just debating whether or not to look for him when we heard something that sounded like a thud, as though a heavy object had hit the floor. Myself and Williamson stood up and went to investigate the noise, leaving Harris behind in case Osborne returned while we were gone.

What we found still chills my blood. Osborne’s face had been twisted into a mask of sheer terror, his blood drained from his face and his hair white. That wasn’t the worst of it though. We found Osborne’s body several feet distant. His head had been messily torn off in a fit of unearthly brutality. I looked at Williamson’s face and saw the same horror there that I was feeling. An unearthly scream snapped us back to our senses. We rushed back to the central chamber to find Harris rocking back and forth on the ground, sobbing and making mewling noises. I called his name but there was no response. Williamson put his hand on Harris’s shoulder but quickly pulled it back as Harris screamed again. I felt very distinctly that there was another presence with us but I could not see anyone else. We spent a harrowing night keeping watch as none of us were able to sleep, jumping at every flickering shadow and imagined movement. The only sound was Harris moaning and mumbling to himself.

“He’s here… he’s here… heaven help me…”

Time became meaningless to us. I could not say whether it was two hours or twelve hours before Williamson gave a shout. He had seen a small light flickering down the main passageway, a light not coming from our lamps. We braced ourselves to face whatever was to come. Eventually we heard a voice call out to us.

“Montserrat? Harris? Are you there? Williamson? Osborne?” It was Colbert’s voice. Relief washed over us as Colbert and Gregory entered the chamber. One look at Harris told them that things had not gone well for us and we broke the news to them about Osborne. Gregory explained that the sandstorm had lasted shorter than anticipated, and the damage to the tomb’s entrance had not been too severe. We wasted no time in gathering what few things remained to us and making our exit, with Gregory and Colbert leading poor Harris and myself and Williamson carrying Osborne’s grisly remains wrapped in a thick blanket. On leaving the tomb I had to shield my eyes against the blinding sun, grateful that I was alive to see it.

We very quickly decided to bring an end to our expedition. Over the next few days we struck our camp, paid off the few workers that remained and began the long journey back to Cairo, from there to return to America. Even then we were not to be spared tragedy, as Gregory contracted malaria from a mosquito bite, dying shortly after our arrival in Cairo. Harris too met with an unfortunate end, literally screaming himself to death one night. And so it was with diminished spirits that the rest of us returned to Arkham with our single prize - the statue of Nephren-Ka - which I was very happy to hand off to the Historical Society. They were saddened by the loss of Osborne and agreed to give the statue a place of honour in their exhibits.

As for the rest of us, by unspoken agreement we never talked of what transpired in Egypt. Indeed, I had intended to take the knowledge to my grave, however something has compelled me to put down in writing those terrible events that occurred. Over the years that followed it seemed as though we were under some sort of curse, as Williamson lost his life in a construction accident. The subsequent inquiry put the cause down to negligence, however I knew Williamson to be a thorough and meticulous man. Burroughs, our linguist, was the victim of an attempted burglary at his home while he was present. The thieves panicked and one of them drew a pistol, shooting Burroughs and killing him instantly. Colbert suffered a sudden heart attack, perfectly fine one moment, walking home from his office at the University, dead on the ground the next. The somewhat mundane nature of his death afforded me a sense of morbid amusement.

I am the last, and I know that I too will soon follow them. The doctors have been very clear. I have only months left. Is it a curse? Or just diabolical coincidence? I cannot say. I have come to the end of my story and I will leave instructions that this document is to be sealed away. It is possible that curiosity may overcome my wishes but that is beyond my control. As I look up to the window of my study I see the night sky through the glass window, just as black as the obsidian walls of the tomb of Nephren-Ka and I see my own reflection staring back at me.

There is a figure in black and gold standing over me.


	7. The Train’s Whistle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boom in railroad construction during the 19th century saw many American cities and towns connected in ways hitherto unimagined, with travel times reduced from days to mere hours.

The boom in railroad construction during the 19th century saw many American cities and towns connected in ways hitherto unimagined, with travel times reduced from days to mere hours. Major lines stretched across the country, with smaller branches reaching out to more remote villages and settlements. The locomotive thundered its way over the land, replacing the canal and the horse as the transportation method of choice for both freight and passengers. The economic downturn of 1893 saw many railway companies bankrupted and others bought and consolidated. The unprofitable lines - both major and branch - were either improved and incorporated into other lines or were decommissioned and left to rot, monuments to the ever shifting tides of capitalism.

Such was the fate of the branch line that linked Ipswich with Groveland, passing through Chaplinville, Rooty Plain, Marlboro and Georgetown. The intention was to provide a convenient - and reasonably priced - route of travel for those wishing to gain employment in Ipswich, Bolton or Arkham. However the expense of building the line, the less than expected passenger load, and even the sheer impracticality of the venture led to the owning rail company dismantling the line after the first few trips. The rails themselves were left in place and given over to nature, which wasted no time in reclaiming the land. The few stations on the route were left as husks, a remnant of what might have been.

At least, that was the official explanation for the line’s closure. Some of the more sensationalist of the local and national newspapers printed rumours of strange phenomena - lights appearing along the line, giving the impression that a train was arriving only for it to disappear, whistling and rumbling of a locomotive with its attendant carriages where there was nothing to be seen. Several tabloids whose journalistic integrity were particularly in question told of how one train seemed to vanish completely, having left one station but failing to arrive at the following station, with no sign or trace found by those searching along the track. 

The most outlandish story - and purportedly the event that played the biggest factor in the line’s closure - appeared in only one paper, the Arkham Advertiser. According to a single unsubstantiated source, the last journey on the line ended in a most peculiar and unorthodox fashion. The train left Ipswich on time as normal and passed through Chaplinville and Rooty Plain without incident. It then failed to arrive at Marlboro, and no sight nor sound of it was heard for a number of hours, whereupon it rolled into the platform at Groveland. The passengers seemed to have undergone a strange experience, and no sense could be made of their accounts. One passenger in particular became the centre of attention as, upon stepping down to the platform, he began screaming and crying out such phrases as “Where am I? What have you done to me? WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO ME?” The individual was taken to a hospital where his mental condition was assessed and found to have been irreparably compromised. No further information had been available as the man died that very night, his body unable to cope with the stresses his mind had placed upon it. And so the Ipswich-Groveland branch line was closed, another victim of the caprices of fate.

To Roger Simmonite, amateur historian and folklorist, the story was a bright point of light in an otherwise dull day-to-day existence. The mystery of the Ispwich-Groveland train became first a hobby, and then an obsession. After his daily job at the Arkham Historical Society, a mundane task cataloguing the Society’s latest acquisitions - work which had become more intensive as of late due to a recent expedition to Egypt - Simmonite would return to his rooms and pore over newspaper clippings and pages copied from historical records, learning everything he could about the Ipswich-Groveland branch line and that last, ill-fated train. Simmonite had memorised the train’s timetable, the names of the driver, engineer and conductor, and had obtained at great expense the passenger lists for the few journeys made on the line.

It was the final list of names that held the most interest for him. Simmonite had expended countless hours of time and effort to find the histories of each person. A varied group of middle and lower class types, some academics, some labourers, the odd debutante, every single one of them experienced a sharp downturn in their fortunes following the journey. Most of them spent some time in psychiatric care, some more than once, and a number had died prematurely with no seeming medical cause save the stress brought on by their mental states. Of the one who had made the scene on the platform at Groveland station, there was no record. Simmonite could find no evidence of any sort of identification, not even a name. The passenger statements that did exist all corresponded in key areas - namely that the train left Ipswich and that it had reached both Chaplinville and Rooty Plain on schedule. After that the statements became erratic and contradictory, as though different people were remembering different things. The statements did not agree again until the trains arrival at Groveland, when all bore witness to the mysterious passenger’s outburst.

Simmonite also gleaned that the actual rails and the station buildings still existed. He had determined to make a visit to the site when his schedule allowed. As chance would have it, Simmonite would have a week’s leave in the coming months. It would be the ideal opportunity to make his pilgrimage and try to find any solid evidence as to what happened to the train. Having reached the limit of his researches with the currently available information, Simmonite instead devoted his energies to preparing for his expedition, purchasing such supplies he thought he might need.

The first day of his leave saw Simmonite take the train from Arkham to Ipswich, the last he would see of the city for the next few days. His initial plan was straightforward. He would walk the length of the line from Ipswich to Groveland, camping in a tent during the night as close to the rails as he could. Along the way he would keep careful watch for anything unusual and make copious notes in a notebook he had purchased especially for the purpose. When he reached the abandoned stations he would examine them minutely from top to bottom, eking out every piece of information they could give him. He estimated the journey would take four days, maybe five if he found anything worthy of further study along the way.

Upon alighting from the train at Ipswich Simmonite immediately began looking for the rails that led to Groveland. The platform supervisor was of little help, giving Simmonite a strange look when he enquired as to their whereabouts. After a few minutes of searching however, Simmonite saw a gleam amongst the foliage and found the object of his search. The rails led away from the station, and to Simmonite they looked like two thin lines of silver, leading to some unknown destination. Simmonite began walking without once looking back, striding along the rails with a determination he had never before known.

The first day passed uneventfully and, to Simmonite’s perception, somewhat disappointingly. He knew better than to expect instant results, but he had hoped for something, anything, no matter how small. As the sun started to descend he saw that he was approaching Chaplinville - he saw the shape of the station building in the distance. Deciding that now was an appropriate time to set up camp for the night, Simmonite erected his tent and went to sleep, ready to tackle the abandoned building in the morning. That night his dreams were troubled. He dreamt he heard the whistle of a train very close by and the rattling of the carriages. However, he could see nothing but dim fog.

The next day Simmonite reached the Chaplinville station and began exploring it thoroughly. He was again disappointed to find nothing beyond a few scraps of paper or rags. Feeling slightly disheartened, Simmonite resumed his walk along the line. The rest of the day and the following day proceeded much like the first - there was nothing of note to be found on the rails or near them, and the station at Rooty Plain was as unenlightening as the station at Chaplinville. For the first time, Simmonite began to despair of discovering anything of real value to his investigation. That night, he camped close to the Rooty Plain station and as he slept, he dreamt of the train. This time he was able to see it thundering past on the line. He tried to make out faces at the windows but they were shadowed and indistinct. Nevertheless, the dream seemed to invigorate him and the next day he set out once more with renewed determination.

Despite the fact that his journey had been unfruitful so far, Simmonite felt that Marlboro would be the place, if any truly existed, that would yield the most promising results. It was there that the disappearance of the train was first noticed, and it was likely that some evidence of unusual activity still remained. And so, as his watch indicated early afternoon, Simmonite arrived at the derelict and crumbling Marlboro station. At first it looked as though he would be disappointed again, but as he stood on the platform of train and looked up and down the line, he thought he heard something. A whistle, far off in the distance. Presently the whistle was joined by the rhythmic rumbling of a steam locomotive. Simmonite felt his breath hitch in his throat. What was this? Were his dreams beginning to cloud his mind?

Any further thoughts were ended by the arrival of a steam train. Simmonite saw the number on the locomotive and realised it was the same identification as the train that had disappeared all those years ago. The engine shone brightly in the sun as though it was brand new and not decades old, without a hint of discolouration or rust. The carriages attached to the train also looked as opulent as they had in the photographs in Simmonite’s papers back in Arkham. Was this really the vanished train? As his mind tried to process these new events the train slowed down and stopped and a door at the front of the lead carriage opened. A man wearing the uniform of a conductor stepped down to the platform.

“Sir! Your train has arrived!” The man smiled, and to Simmonite’s vision it seemed as though the smile stretched too far, as if it was reaching from ear to ear. Simmonite suddenly realised that the man was speaking to him.

“Tr… train? What do you mean? I don’t need a train!” His voice betrayed a tremor of fear.

The conductor’s smile seemed to grow wider. “Why sir! You must board this train! It is your train!” His eyes bore into Simmonite’s eyes, and Simmonite thought he could see vast galaxies and many stars reflected in the gaze. Simmonite’s legs began to move seemingly of their own accord, as though he was a mere observer in his own body. He climbed up the steps and entered the door. The conductor followed him in and as soon as they were both on board the doors shut and the train started to move.

Simmonite looked around him in wonder, the thought in his mind that he was somehow still dreaming. He was standing in a carriage filled with rows of seats, each one occupied by a passenger. The passengers were all dressed in a style not seen since the last century. The conductor put his hand on Simmonite’s shoulder.

“I believe this is your seat right here sir!” He guided Simmonite to an empty seat next to a window, the occupant of the neighbouring seat shifting to make way. Simmonite watched the countryside flash by, only it seemed different somehow. The differences were subtle but to Simmonite’s eye, having seen the landscape surrounding the rails for the past few days, they were definitely there. He blinked involuntarily as something seemed to flash, and he saw that they were travelling along the stretch of railway from Ipswich to Chaplinville. He heard the train whistle as they flew past the station at speed. Another flash and they were passing Rooty Plain. Simmonite made a strange half-strangled yell as he saw a figure standing outside a tent on the side of the rails, a tent that looked identical to his own. He only caught a glimpse of the figure’s face as the train thundered on but he saw his own features staring back at him.

Almost succumbing to the grip of insanity, Simmonite spun his head around and looked at his fellow passengers. The one sitting next to him was eating what on first glance looked to be breadsticks, but he saw blood dripping from the passenger’s mouth and realised that the bread sticks were in fact fingers. Simmonite leapt to his feet. All around him were scenes of indescribable horror. A couple who at first glance looked like they were sharing a kiss were in fact biting and feeding on each others’ necks. A child who seemed to be holding a toy turned out to be holding a living, beating heart while his mother looked on in pride, an arm… no a tentacle… draped lovingly around the young boy’s shoulders. Simmonite struggled past his grotesque neighbour and made his way as fast as he could to the front of the carriage, not caring for the yells and murmurs behind him.

The door leading to the locomotive at the front of the carriage was open and Simmonite plunged through it. In front of him was what should be the coal tender, but the contents were most definitely not coal. Simmonite managed to clamber on top of the tender and saw that the contents were blackened and charred pieces of flesh and bone. In front of him he could see the cabin of the locomotive, and it was the final straw that drove him over the edge. Instead of the dials he saw many eyes of different shapes and sizes, and instead of the hatch for the coal there was a great mouth with many teeth, chomping and crunching on the vile fuel as it was shovelled in. Simmonite felt a hand on his shoulder. The conductor was standing behind him.

“Sir! Please! You must return to your seat!”

Unable to take anymore, Simmonite fainted. When he awoke the train was pulling into a station. The sign indicated that they had reached Groveland. Simmonite sat up straight. He was back in his seat in the hellish carriage. He looked around fearfully but everything was now normal, apart from the fact that everyone was still dressed in nineteenth century clothing. The doors of the carriage opened and the passengers started to disembark. In a daze, Simmonite lurched off the train and stopped dead when he saw a newspaper lying on a bench on the platform. The date read 22nd September, 1893.

At that moment all reason left Simmonite and he began to scream. He ran to one person and another, not caring who they were or what they looked like. In his delirium he could only form a few words.

“Where am I? What have you done to me? WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO ME?”

He was still screaming as two uniformed police officers took his arms and led him forcefully to a waiting ambulance.

Behind him the train whistled.


	8. I Am Chaos

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I am chaos.
> 
> I am eternal.
> 
> I am older than your mortal mind can possibly comprehend. I was here aeons before the pathetic lump of rock you call your planet formed and I will be here aeons after it is finally ground back into dust.

I am chaos.

I am eternal.

I am older than your mortal mind can possibly comprehend. I was here aeons before the pathetic lump of rock you call your planet formed and I will be here aeons after it is finally ground back into dust. I have seen more stars, trod on more worlds and subjugated more races than you can barely imagine. Even the distant realms of the Dreamlands fell under my sway. Like the rest of my kin, I wield ultimate power. Reality is my plaything. All of creation is mine by right. Mine to shape and to mold at my whim. The day is coming when we will burst through the barriers of the cosmos and lay waste to your world and wipe the pestilence known as Humanity from the universe.

And yet, something about your pathetic ball of rock confounds us. Through the caprices of fate and destiny it is your world, your Earth, that is the keystone that blocks us. Not even Yog-Sothoth, he who is the lurker and the threshold, the key and the gate, the one who dwells between dimensions, can break through into your world. Some of my lesser kin find this frustrating, and are constantly seeking chinks in the armour, looking for the one single opening by which they can slip through. The rest of them are patient and slumber, knowing that the time will come to awaken and take the glory that is rightfully theirs.

Me? I simply find the whole situation amusing.

Why it should be your world that should be our greatest stumbling block, where other greater worlds such as Yuggoth and Aldebaran fell under our dominion, is a cosmic mystery and one that has attracted my interest. That your pathetic, feeble race should be able to resist us is impossible, unheard of. And yet here we are. Even those of us who came to your world in its infancy - Cthulhu, Tsathoggua, Dagon and others - were unable to gain a lasting foothold. Now Cthulhu sleeps under the waves in his city of R’lyeh. Tsathoggua is buried in black N’Kai, in the depths of Yoth beneath the ancient and forgotten city of K’n-Yan, where he whiles away the millennia surrounded by his Formless Spawn and playing with blue spectral entities. Dagon plays with his pet race of creatures you call the Deep Ones, sending them out amongst humans and drawing them back. Like the rest of us, they wait for the day the stars are right.

For all your race’s ingenuity and power in resisting us, however, there are those individuals who seek to aid us, foolishly believing they can curry our favour in return for immortality or omnipotence. As if they would somehow be spared when the time comes for us to return! Some of them pray to Azathoth, the blind idiot god who sleeps on his black throne at the centre of the universe, whose awakening would see the whole of reality consumed in a roiling nuclear chaos. Others follow the so-called “Great” Cthulhu, seeking to raise his sunken city of R’lyeh and hasten his ultimate awakening. There were plots to summon Yog-Sothoth, by trying to create an offspring with a human woman who would tear open the gate, a venture as ill-advised as it was ill-fated. There are still countless other little cults as you call them, some long lasting, others appearing for a short time, all trying to gain favour with one or more of us in return for untold power over their fellow humans. I can tell you this. The gods neither know nor care for your pathetic entreaties. You are to us as those little creatures you call ants are to you. When we return we will roll over you and barely even notice.

More interesting to me, and certainly more entertaining, are those who seek to prevent our return. These valiant, brave and foolhardy people devote their lives to foiling the plans of those who wish to hasten our return. It is most amusing to observe their struggles, giving their lives to that humanity can go on existing. Even when they break - and they all break, some sooner than others - more rise to take their place. Over thousands of years I have seen schemes concocted with the most meticulous of planning and detail, only to be spoiled by a small, seemingly insignificant act of defiance. It certainly makes for an interesting way to while away the time.

Recently - and I use the word recently in a very broad sense - I have begun taking a more direct approach in the affairs of your world. I make no plans or schemes myself, after all there is no need when you have such imaginative people of your own. Instead I simply nudge and suggest. An idea here, a vision there, the odd promise of power, some of which I even fulfil, the possibilities are literally infinite. I have appeared in your world in many forms and guises. Some of them are calculated to inspire fear and worship, others to engender trust and confidence. Some are fantastic and others commonplace. With these forms I can plant seeds of ideas or grant certain powers, just enough to start the wheels turning. Then I simply step back and watch events unfold. It is especially amusing to me to set seemingly conflicting schemes in motion, watching armies of humans fervently working against each other, each believing that theirs is the only true way while those daring and foolish enough to stand against them heroically give their lives. None of them know the truth about us. The truth that assures our ultimate victory over everything. The great truth is that we are patient. One day we will win. One day we will return and all that you hold dear will cease to exist. To us a thousand years passes like a single moment. With that sure certainty, what do we care if a particular plot succeeds or fails?

I believe you yourself have encountered some of my forms as you have been reading, or did you truly believe you had come across these pages by chance? Perhaps this is another subtle nudge, another vague suggestion? Who knows what you may do with the knowledge you have acquired? Will you turn to our worship and mistakenly try to help us? Will you seek to increase your own power at the expense of your fellow man? Or will you devote the rest of your meaningless existence to frustrating us and our followers? Will you work to ensure that your pathetic world and the people on it go on living for just one more day? As with all those who have met me, whether knowingly or unknowingly, the choice is entirely in your hands.

The wheels of another scheme will begin to turn soon. Great schemes, concocted by the greatest minds your world has to offer. And within those wheels are more wheels. And more wheels. And yet more wheels. And at the centre of all the wheels and all the schemes you will find me, poking, prodding, pulling, nudging and, of course, laughing.

I am eternal.

I am chaos.

I am Nyarlathotep.


End file.
